The Daily Walk Home

One dark evening, a woman walks alone along a busy street. She sticks close to the sidewalks bathed in orange light from the street lights. She does this almost every evening after work. With the winter sun slow to rise and early to set, she rarely travels in daylight. A cold wind rustled through her hair, chilling her bones. She zips her jacket all the way up to provide another layer over the scarf she is wearing.

It was not empty in the street by any means. There are many others taking their evening commute home as well. Regardless of the amount of people around, they always warn women not to walk home alone in the dark. But this woman doesn’t have a choice.

Although she is tense, she does not scurry. She’s not gripped by fear, but sharpened with anticipation. It’s always in a different place that someone grabs her wrist and yanks her from the orange lamplight into the shadows. She stifles a gasp; it never fails to startle her. The man stares back at her with an oily grin that distorts his handsome face. Brown hair falls just below his temples, slashing across his pale face. Even in the dim light, his sharp teeth flashed.

“You took a different route home again. Are you avoiding me?”

Those words brought me back into my body. I was no longer watching the woman in horror. I was her. Fear kept me rooted and alert. I was frozen as he ran a tongue over the sharp points of his canines.

I didn’t respond. Nothing I said would be satisfactory. Especially tonight, with his hair shiny and perfectly combed and his teeth gleaming. His skin looked delicately smooth and supple and his grip on my hand was firm and steady. Tonight wasn’t about need - it was about power. It was about control.

No, when it was hunger, he was a pathetic sight. Once he was so starved he knelt in front of me on wobbly knees and begged for my submission with tears streaking down his sunken eyes. That night I had been bold enough to say no. It worked, for a short time anyway. That night I had pried my hand from his grip and sneered down at him as I walked off. His head stayed bowed and he shivered in the cool breeze.

But when he was back to full strength, he found me with revenge dancing in his cruel face. I wondered what other poor soul he had indulged in and thrown aside. That night, he drained me within an inch of my life. To emphasize his point, he spat out my blood. He continued to drain me beyond fullness, just to prove his point.

So tonight, I held my tongue. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I forced my face to relax into a slate of boredom. I tried to say: “Well, go on with it,” with my face. I couldn’t say it with my tongue - that would give him an excuse to draw it out even longer.

He continued to stare me down with my wrist locked in his. How the illusion of choice taunted me. Even though he was stronger, I could break his grip. But the next time he found me, I would pay in blood. So much blood.

So I waited as he lowered his head to my neck. He pulled back the scarf, revealing He pierced my skin with his sharp canines. I sucked in a breath at the familiar sting but I held still. Moving would only illicit more pain, tear more skin. I kept my eyes up, looking over his shoulder.

People were still walking along the sidewalk. Upon seeing the tall figure hunched over me, they quickly averted their gazes and kept to the warm pools of lamplight. I looked at them blankly. I wanted to hate them for not helping, but my well of anger had run dry. The first time this vampire drank from me, I had ran screaming like a madwoman. Screaming that I had been bitten and there was a vampire walking among them. Most people looked at me with pitying looks. Some with disgust. But mostly just the vast expanse of silence. Of nothing. That’s all I felt now, both toward the bypassers and my situation.

When I began to feel something, I knew it was time to start begging. My knees began to wobble and my head began to spin. The vampire was still latched to my neck.

“Please, I can’t take anymore. Stop,” I pleaded meekly.

The vampire continued for a few more seconds before pulling away, looking rather annoyed. “Please, you need this just as much as I do. Your blood tastes like shit and this is the thanks I get? It’s better off being removed from your body. How many times do I have to tell you to consume more iron?!”

He began getting frantic. His harsh words echoed in the silence around us. People began crossing to the other side of the street to put distance between us. I wished I could blame them, but I would probably have done the same.

I closed off my emotions, trying to wait for the storm to pass. But how long would my windows be boarded up? How long could I survive on so little light? As I seal up the last of the glass, I find myself looking at the woman again. Although the vampire is screaming right in her face, her eyes are blank.

The woman’s legs are trembling beneath her but she’s taking shallow breaths to keep her head clear. The woman knows that the yelling is a sign that she’s nearing the end. It’s not as scary now that I am watching the woman from a safe distance. The vampire is finished his spiel, blood and spit flies into the woman’s face. Finally, he’s turning away.  The woman pulls up her scarf, blood soaking into the thin material. People continue to give her a wide berth as she trudges all the way home and turns the dead bolt from inside her apartment.

Her hands are trembling as she pulls paper towels from the roll on the kitchen counter and presses it to her neck. The coppery tang of blood causes her stomach to churn. She keeps her head forward as she passed the hallway mirror. When she finally crawls into bed, hot tears slide down her face. She isn’t making a sound. No one is around to hear her whimpers or cower at her screams. The shameful tears drench the pillow underneath her until blissful unconsciousness erases her strife.